Clint laughs silently, though his ribcage rattles with it.

He's quiet for several minutes, and quiet tends to let his thoughts work themselves out, thoughts he's been rolling over in his mind all week. He's --

Sitting here, with her, with her happy, with her alive (he has so much on his hands, but not her death, not yet), and he feels -- wrong. Not that he's here, not that she's here, but that he's keeping intel from her.

"Nat?"